It started off alright… 

We took a coach to Chelmsford, home of V Festival for the south (a carbon copy event is held in Staffordshire). The people on the coach munched pasties and drank milkshake, there were mild murmurs of hopeful conversations and the traffic was non-existent. The weather was warm and dry. I was looking forward to giving camping a second chance, pitching my new tent in the sunshine and soaking up the party atmosphere on arrival. I saw no evidence of what was about to follow. 

In hindsight, this is not true. I should have seen the evidence when the driver departed late because of the time it took to squeeze our luggage into the hold. Space was limited. The coach, only half filled with people, was fully loaded with booze. It was rumbling its way to Essex heaving under the weight of crates of supermarket larger. It looked like Oddbins in there. People who go to festivals drink, and they drink a lot. 

Things were still pleasant. We had a long wait for our wrist bands but it was okay. A group of teenagers had their Ipods attached to a speaker and impressed me with their repertoire. After an hour waiting in the queue, we called for a couple cans of Carlsberg for a quick, but clearly false, energy boost. When we finally got our wristbands, I practically skipped through the Yellow Campsite as we spent ages looking for a spot to pitch that was a suitable distance from the latrines. 

We arrived on a Friday afternoon and the first night was my second sign of trouble. People don’t come to festivals to sleep but it seems they go to festivals to make sure no one else sleeps other. Rascals running around shouting “wakey wakey, eggs and bacon!” at 2.30am could be considered playful by some. That’s not an opinion I share. 

Two of my friends paid £10 for a programme so I didn’t have to, which was nice. The line up wasn’t amazing but full of old and familiar acts like Feeder, Skunk Anansie and Stereophonics. In fact, Feeder was the first band we hit up and they were great. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just an ordinary gig. What I hadn’t realised is that it was midday, the crowd were older and this wasn’t representative of the whole event. 

“It feels too warm to be beer” 

V Festival is held in Essex. This is to its detriment. I found this out when watching the Sterophonics, a band I’m not even fussed about anymore. Empty Coke bottles were landing on my head. This was fine. Cardboard pint cups rained down. This was okay too. Cardboard pint cups filled with the dregs of people’s beer then headed in our direction. Par for the course. I just put my hood up. No problem. 

When the liquid feels too warm to be beer, then it becomes a problem. 

When you go to V Festival, you get pissed on. Men, and possibly Essex girls, too lazy, juvenile, stupid and revolting to go to a toilet, or at least an appropriate place, urinate in the nearest thing they have to hand. This is usually a pint cup. Since they’ve downed several pints of Carling, they’re in plentiful supply. Once they’ve relieved themselves, they don’t pour the contents onto the ground. Why ruin their Jane Norman Wellingtons? They launch their ghastly vessel in the air, which manages to hold its horrible cargo, until it lands on an unsuspecting festival goer who has the misfortune of standing a few rows in front of a cretin. On too many occasions, that unsuspecting festival goer was me and I have never been so appalled. My friend even got a cup down her back when stood near the back of the throng. It’s sickening. 

I asked my friends if this is normal behaviour at a festival. It wouldn’t happen at Wireless. It daresay it wouldn’t happen if Jay-Z was on. I’m shocked that’s its raining piss but I’m even more shocked the crowd is not rioting. My friends agree it’s disgusting, but deal with the humiliation with shrugs. I want to go ballistic. Not long afterwards, I was given a chance to do so. 

In the moments between Stereophonics and the headliners, Kings of Leon, cups continue to land on our heads and shoulders. But whilst standing, waiting patiently, and getting a bit bored, I can feel something else. Something is trickling down the bottom of my shorts. I put this down to the piss showers we have been subjected to. But the liquid continues, like someone is pouring something down the back of my legs. I momentarily think that someone is discarding a drink. I even approve, thinking everyone around me has drunk far too much anyway. The sensation still continues and I realise it has a scent. I turn around to see what exactly is going on to witness a man tuck his penis back into his trousers.

I pause, stunned. I look down at my shorts and the tops of my Wellington boots. I’ve been standing around wondering why my legs are getting wetter and wetter, and the ******g *****r as been pissing on me! 

What followed was a lot of aggression and hostility, best summed up by the comment of an observer, “I’ve never heard a woman say ***t before”, which resulted in the vulgar individual and his ugly fiancé getting the hell away from me. 

Suffice to say, I couldn’t wait for the Kings of Leon to sing their boring songs so I could get to the camp and have a shower in front of some other, very happy, campers. 

The night was full of bad singing, the response of “arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh” to the constant calls of  “oli, oli, oli” and the repetitive chants of “Colchester, Colchester, I’d rather live in Baghdad than Norwich”. 

I felt very different to the vast majority of people at V. The males had their shirts off and writing on their chests that said nonsense like “Come Get It” with an arrow pointing down their jeans. The females stumbled around. There was no diversity. Mostly white, all dressed the same, all behaving the same way. Everybody is extremely drunk at all times of the day. It was like Wildlife on One for humans.   

Tinie Tempah

The Sunday had good moments. Tinie Tempah was awesome and should have been on a bigger stage. (Even that had a low point, as one bright spark referred to me as”Mrs Tinie Tempah” when I walked past him. He must not know many black people). Skin from Skunk Anansie sounded great, gave the best stage performance and looked genuinely happy to be there, unlike Kelly Jones who looked like his presence was a contractual obligation. Plan B demonstrated fine versatility. He even told a brief story about a man who had been escorted out of one of his concerts because he “pissed on a bird in front of him” which finally raised a smile on my face. For some reason people still like watching Madness and there was a nice vibe in the crowd at that show. I decide that festival goers can’t dance so music that involves lots of jumping around goes down a treat, hence the massive cheer when Baggy Trousers got an airing. 

More wretchedness was to come. 

I really like Doves. They are on of the first bands that come into my head when people ask me what kind of music I like. When I can’t be bothered to say “everything” I tell people I like Doves. After both enjoying and enduring the Calvin Harris set (again, more bodily fluids descended upon us, but on the second day I was armed with a trusty raincoat) we had the chance to get near the front. I made sure my two friends were stood behind me for this one because they were the only people in the crowd guaranteed not to pee on me. 

Doves

Doves were due to come on at about 8.20pm. They were about 2 minutes late. In the midst of an audience of The Prodigy fans, patience was wanting. A massive bottle fight ensued, which was unbearable. To make matters worse, three teenage couples were getting far too intimate in the dense crowd very close to me and my friends. One boy started fingering his conquest to my absolute disgust. As if I hadn’t been in contact with enough samples of Essex specimens. 

Doves came on rightfully asking the crowd “what on earth are you doing?” in their distinctive Manchester tone as bottles, cups and piss flew through the air. Their excellent set was marred, admittedly by my awful singing, but also by the recurring chants of “who are ya?” and the numerous objects being thrown on stage. The band, rightfully annoyed, threatened to “beat the ***t out of the next person to throw something”. I was elated. Finally, someone at this bloody festival who doesn’t appreciate crap being thrown at them. 

I concede that a billing beneath The Prodigy is a bit odd for essentially a guitar band, even if they used to make rave music. But the nasty V Festival crowd was disrespectful and ignorant. Like a child who tires him/herself out with naughtiness, people did calm down. They heard a few songs they recognised and the wee shower relented momentarily. The Doves left the stage describing the experience unenthusiastically as “interesting” and declaring V the “last festival [they’ll] visit in a while” I find myself pleased to be in agreement with them. 

The Prodigy were good, but to cut a long story short I’d had enough and spent the set squeezing myself through the hoard trying desperately to get as far away from everybody as I possible could. I returned to the tent alone.

I, of course, will never go to V again. Not even if Richard Branson writes me a personal letter of regret and offers me a ride in his helicopter. Not even if he places a quota on the people who come from Billericay. But I learnt two things from the experience: 

1.  People who go to festivals, particularly, V, are filthy unless proven clean. 

Whilst only one individual urinated down my boots, the people surrounding me didn’t seem to think he had done anything wrong. It was like I was on a different, unsanitary planet. In another situation, at another show, that awful man would have, rightly or wrongly, had his head kicked in. 

2. There is nothing a festival goer will make a fuss about, no matter how disgusting. 

Whilst waiting for The Prodigy, still being coated with the urine of strangers, a group of lads started singing “we’re all getting pissed on, we’re all getting pissed on, la la la la la.” I can assure you that in a field, with no proper shower facilities, there is no bright side to the situation. There was nothing to sing about. Only misery. 

If you can relate to those singing lads, and think that I’m over-reacting, fair enough. That’s probably the difference between you and me.  In fact, that’s the difference between everyone who can tolerate festivals, and people who cannot. 

If you’re in my camp, fear not. I do these things, so you don’t have to.

We booked seated tickets in the circle because we’re getting too old to jump around to black power music in the standing section. We needn’t have bothered, people were on their feet before the support acts had even finished.  

Akala

Akala was finishing his set as we arrived; he’s smart, he’s sincere and he’s far too slim for his afro and giant ebony Africa neck piece. What he lacks in stage presence is made up for in ambitious lyrics and delivery. His penultimate performance is a worthy impression of the high-speed rapper Twista, only with thoughtful words. Speed comes at the price of diction but you can tell the meaning is there because he looks serious enough. His final song is something about the children of Iraq, Afghanistan and Brazil. He knows the world he wants to live in and he knows what’s in his way. Good for him. 

David Rodigan

David Rodigan, the reggae genre’s Tim Westwood only likeable, has still got it. He must be in his sixties now, but who cares? He’s one of the best selectas out there. The man loves reggae and he knows how to turn a nodding head crowd into a dancehall rabble. Once we’d risen to give him his signal, he made it seem almost embarrassing to sit down again. Who wants to look like they’re not enjoying themselves? I wonder if he does weddings. His love for reggae is infectious. 

Having spread his reggae-syndrome to the audience, Damien Marley and Nas enter stage left. Their entourage are in the wings, including a very wobbly Amy Winehouse, whilst they take us through tracks that show as where they’ve been, and where they’re going to. 

The highlight of the show really was whole thing. Nas and Marley don’t duet in a traditional way; the music they have made isn’t like the rock-rap combination of Collision Course or that horribly overrated RUN-DMC/Aerosmith union. It’s not a clash of cultures, it’s a meeting of minds. As such, the two offer as much space as they can for each other to shine in their own right. When Nas launches into his own set, Marley leaves the stage. At no point were the two competing for stage supremacy.

Both artists have been around long enough to succumb to nostalgia in their shows. It always amazes me how many people know Illmatic tracks off by heart. The biggest surprise was his delivery of Hate Me Now, the least conscious and relevant track of the night. Still, it was this tune that made me wish I was in the standing section with the masses. Black power fists were replaced by people raising their middle finger in the air. Made You Look almost stole the show, until he delivered One Mic, soulfully with a lone drummer, in a way that made me want to change the world myself. 

Damian killed us all with Welcome to Jamrock and the Exodus sampling Move. He gave us the most wistful moment with a rendition of Could You Be Loved which was a pitch perfect end to the evening. 

A special mention goes out to the flag waver and the backing singers/dancers who will certainly be feeling tired today. 

Distant Relatives works; it’s about a shared heritage in the Motherland. Instead of a celebration of differences, it’s a celebration of what they have in common.  Whether you are born in Queens or Kingston, the struggle is just the same. 

There was a mixed crowd, (dreads, after-work concertgoers, young and old) and I don’t know how many people took home that message. I really don’t think the fall of Babylon is in the best interests of a lot of the audience either. But, it was a riotous show, Distant Relatives sounds like an aggressively joyous album and I, writing this the afternoon after the night before, still feel empowered. 

Distant Relatives is out now on Def Jam, Universal.

This is the world that we live in

This is the world that we live in; twelve months of articles about arts, culture, news, politics, travel and current affairs from Lucid Magazine. 

Available now in paperback from www.lucidmagazine.co.uk for £10.40 plus p+p.

All proceeds go to AfriKids. 

This is the world that we live in

Introduction 

When the idea for Lucid magazine was first conceived we knew that we wanted to create a publication that would go beyond the simple reporting of news. Our goal was to fill the gap between the sparse headlines of the traditional media and the hollow features of the plethora of new media sites that, like us, have capitalised on the ease and immediacy of the web to make their voices heard. As clichéd as it may sound, we wanted to go behind the headlines and investigate the issues at the heart of a story. We also wanted to report on things that weren’t being featured in the mainstream, due either to media fatigue or genuine ignorance.

 We launched with a bang with a premier edition that focused on the fifteenth anniversary of the genocide in Rwanda. The issue featured harrowing first-person testimonies, strikingly intimate black-and-white portraits and interviews with the people who were working tirelessly to help victims overcome their circumstances, including an interview with Paul Rusesabagina, the inspiration behind the Oscar-nominated movie Hotel Rwanda. A brief history of Indians in the Caribbean, a first-person travelogue on the essence of Japan and an impassioned exposition on why London remains the capital of cool completed this impressive and eclectic first issue.

Our intention was clear from the outset. Our tagline was ‘clear opinion, sound debate’ but it was never our aim to be deliberately provocative. Rather, we wanted to stimulate debate and inspire, where necessary, action on the issues that mattered.

The tagline later evolved into ‘intelligent new journalism’ which, I believe, better reflects the scope of our offering, comprising, as it does, of everything from literary journalism and writings that necessarily involve an element of the writer’s life to well-researched factual features and well-argued opinion.

We each believe wholeheartedly in everything we’ve written. And while we may not always share the same view, the respect we have for each other’s individual right of expression has ensured that the articles on Lucid represent a diverse spectrum of thought.

This book is a truly collaborative effort, owing much to the individuals and organisations who’ve helped us on our own paths to enlightenment and given freely of their time and knowledge. Without them, Lucid Magazine wouldn’t be possible and our understanding of the world that we live in would be all the poorer.

So this is the world that we live in – exhilarating, enticing, exhausting, never dull, sometimes frightening but always hopeful, even in the midst of despair. Go out and experience it for yourselves or stay in and join us on our journey of discovery.

Sylvia Arthur

Editor, Lucid Magazine

I don’t holiday in the UK. When I was young we would use London as our window on the world and spend our holidays enjoying the interests that often pass resident Londoners by. When we did travel, we went to see family abroad. As I packed my backpack on a Friday evening I looked forward to the next ten days. I had overlooked the experiences on my doorstep long enough.

 Part 1: London to Edinburgh 

“It’s practically commutable” 

The train from London to Edinburgh was a novel way for me to travel. I had never been further north than Newcastle before, and on that occasion we travelled by coach – a journey gruelling upon recollection. 

Rather simply, I had been looking to this part of my journey the most. I anticipated the scenery, the people watching, a good book and friendly company would keep me occupied for the 4 hours it takes the train to rocket its way to Waverly station. 

There is something romantic and dramatic about train journeys. The mode tastes of Graeme Greene novels and summons A Brief Encounter from my memory. Train journeys have a richness flying and driving do no have, long-established by films and literature where trains are often the setting for spectacle and intrigue. Expecting far too much from the experience, I board the train with my pals. 

Everything you need to make a train journey pass quickly

The train was full to capacity but still comfortable. There were three of us and we had a booth for four to ourselves. We spread our possessions on the table that divided us accordingly. We ordered hot tea from the trolley, spat out the cold grey tea we received, then got an explanation and refunds (“The boiler isn’t working”). 

We passed through epic, Victorian, iron-clad stations and endured screaming babies who refused to enjoy the still seas, un-British blue skies and watercolour landscapes. We deciphered the very heavy Glaswegian accent in the seat behind that bellowed at some volume down the phone. It momentarily fooled us into thinking that we, as English people, did not have a remarkable accent of our own. In the blink, or perhaps several blinks, of an eye, we arrived. It felt practically commutable. I said this to my friends who predict more ludicrous observations from me as the week draws on. 

A taxi driver-cum-tour-guide takes us to our hostel bombarding us with finer details about the roads and streets that we were never going to remember. We have to get used to this; the people we meet in Scotland are super friendly to us and we encounter so many sincere yet brief recommendations along the way. It’s refreshing and makes London feel like an extremely cold climate. As it happens, in Edinburgh that weekend, it is ultra hot. We couldn’t  wait to dump our things, wash our faces and run amok in the city.

 A neo-classical sunset in a neo-classical city 

“I can’t understand a word she’s saying” 

We spent two days in Edinburgh. We were tourists, so we went on a bus tour. Ian Rankin’s local is pointed out to us, as is the former home of Robert Louis Stevenson. We were introduced to men (mostly English) immortalised on Corinthian pillars that are scattered throughout the city. Further reading tells me that Edinburgh was one known as the ‘Athens of the North.’ Having been expanded exponentially in the 18^th century the tastes of the time are evident everywhere. African iconography celebrated by the Greeks and then copied by the Georgians is dotted on the roofs of many impressive looking buildings.   

Sphinx of Edinburgh, Scotland

The tour continues. The commentary from the tour guide is pointless for an American man behind me because he “can’t understand a word she’s saying.” I roll my eyes. We can understand everything. We enjoy the history on the bus trip. We get off at Edinburgh Castle to enjoy some more. 

After we’ve satisfactorily respected our duty to familiarise ourselves with cold, hard facts of our host metropolis, we have tea and shortbread in a posh place. It is authentically but somehow crudely art-deco in style. The shortbread is the most Scottish delicacy we had eaten so far. We had been dining on Italian cuisine and drinking ginger beer (a wondrous discovery that we later realise had been available in our local boozer all along). 

With all our learning rooted in the token highlights of the past, and our inevitable bias towards the cosmopolitan treats of the present, I don’t feel like we’re having a faintly Scottish experience at all. 

Calton Hill

Calton Hill pillars in the setting sunlight

To remedy this we take a pleasant walk to Calton Hill, the origins of which we never managed to find out. Calton Hill props up the observatory and has more evidence of Edinburgh’s neo-classical obsession. Random ‘Greek’ monuments that people climb to and sit and drink on are arranged on the summit. We travel with cheap hip flasks filled with spirits because when in Rome you have to act Roman. The sunset is unsurprisingly lovely and coats us and the city in a metallic orange glow. It makes for good digital photographs.  We swig mouthfuls of Jamaican rum and Disarano. Suddenly, the experience, surround by locals doing the same, feels very Scottish indeed.  

Highland bound

“A bad day on the hill is better than a bad day in the office” 

Edinburgh was really just a stop for us to get our bearings and acclimatise to being absent from work. Our real trip is just beginning. After two days we head for the Highlands, specifically, the Isle of Skye. The mammoth distance, winding roads and questionable clutch control in the rented car reminds me I suffer from motion sickness. I feel terrible all the way there. When we arrive, the car stops but my head still travels. I am cheered up by the fact that on the Isle of Skye there are sheep everywhere. I am not embarrassed to say this greatly entertains me. It feels like the land is lawless. Nothing roams freely in London. 

The Isle of Sky is larger than I expected but its rocky, hilly terrain means it is sparsely populated. We are due to spend some time in Portree, the capital of the Isle. It’s a tiny, pretty place that offers visitors one of three pubs, maybe a few more restaurants and miles of walking. 

Portree, Isle of Skye

We have fish and chips for dinner on the first night and eat it on a raised wall by a shore. This becomes a bad idea because the seagulls watch us with intent. Still, we demolish our greasy dinner to sit in a pub. We meet a friendly German couple who have driven up from Germany with their two teenage children. We are startled at the length of their drive. They really like walking, they inform us. They must like driving too.

I have never really done any hill walking. I went on a flat walking route in Suffolk once, where I saw some pigs, and used pre-written walking guides to navigate Bruges on a previous trip. I have never comprehended hill walking as a legitimate and demanding pastime enjoyed by people everywhere. I use this ignorance as an excuse for coming poorly prepared. I travelled with a flimsy shower proof jacket and Nike Air Stabs. I’m told this is not proper mountain apparel. Unfortunately, it will have to do. 

The next day we go on our first walk. It’s a popular route entitled ‘The Old Man of Storr.’ It’s an ascent of around 700ft to a large rock which is the said Old Man. The path is well trodden so for a first time walker it’s thankfully safe and unchallenging. We have our first close encounter with the sheep that roam without restriction. The lambs are adorable; bounding and 'baa-ing' in complete and utter ignorance that they will one day be leaping all the way to the abattoir.  When we get to the top, we realise just how big the Old Man is. We also realise how popular it is because we meet the German couple there again too. It’s a good place to sit and think. When we have sat and thought enough, we descend. 

The Old Man of Storr

Sitting and thinking underneath the Old Man of Storr

We follow the surprisingly quick walk to the Old Man with one to a stony beach, down a horrendously steep hill that gives us sweaty climb back up to look forward to. The beach is fantastic with rock pools where one can find fossil remains. We don’t bother looking for these. Besides, I can only recognise fossils if they are displayed in glass cases with a sign that says ‘this is a fossil’. The beach is full of pebbles and we build towers, challenging each other to knock them down with smaller stones whilst sitting a distance away. My friend often holidays in areas of similar remoteness and assures me this is what you do when you go to ‘shit places’. I quite enjoy it. 

Our final walk of the day takes up to see some caves and a loch, over a pathless field full of sheep and their excrement. I find this horrifying in my shiny, fabulous trainers. I can’t believe my friends happily walk in the stuff. I try to navigate the terrain on my toes. The wind has risen in speed and it becomes cold, especially as we are by the water. When we finish this walk, I’ve seen some staggering terrain, but I’m glad when we get to the car. I feel we have done enough to earn our dinner.

Hill walking on the Isle of Skye

In the evening we have the most fantastic seafood. Langoustines and mussels make a fitting meal to our last evening in the Isle of Sky. We are in a fishing town I hope we dined on local produce that evening. In any case it was delicious.

 Glencoe 

Another long winding drive. There are two things I have failed to enjoy about Scotland so far:  the driving and the radio stations. Bon Jovi and Cliff Richard are not a fitting accompaniment for the lochs and valleys we navigate en route to Gencoe.  I can’t work out if it’s the winding B-roads or Wired for Sound that is making me feel nauseus. Still, after an hour or so, we arrive. 

The 'path' to the summit of The Pap

We do our most challenging walk in Glencoe. It’s called the ‘Pap of Glencoe’. The Pap is a stony cap on the mountain. The path is treacherous enough and unlike the hospitable courses on the Isle of Skye. At some points, we have to clamber to the top. It’s a tiring climb of almost 800m. I recall noticing a quote on one of the walls in our hostel: ‘A bad day on the hill is better than a bad day in the office’. I'm a civil servant so couldn’t agree more. We continue, with determination. We complete the course, proud of our endeavour. Almost immediately we are met by a group of around 15 mature ladies who don’t look like they had any trouble at all. They inform us they walked for hours the day before but couldn’t resist the Pap. I can understand why, it’s magnificent. The views are astonishing and the journey had a gripping tinge of danger that made me feel like I had gone on a proper outdoors expedition. 

View from The Pap of Glencoe

Events of the day also gift us with an engaging script; it starts to snow when we get to the top, and when we do so, we realise we don’t know how to get back down. In the ensuing panic I contemplate calling mountain rescue, only to realise I don’t know their number. A Dutch couple with handy GPS gadgetry comes to our rescue. 

Incidentally, so far, my kit of trendy trainers and sports jackets has served me well. But I feel a bit silly because my attire emanates style over substance and I stand out a mile. One lady we meet at the Pap calls me a ‘movie star’.  I’m buying walking boots for next time. 

Oban 

Oban is the largest town, apart from Edinburgh, we have seen for a few days and feels momentous. It’s calming to drive into a place we can actually get lost in. 

It’s biggest tourist attraction is a seal colony. We really wanted to go to see the seals. When we go to the pier, no one is there. We call one captain who has pinned his mobile number to a notice board. He informs us the seals aren’t there today; it’s too cold and they prefer the temperature of the water on cold days. Disconsolate, we spend the rest of the day drinking.  

I like Oban because it has a whiskey distillery where we learn about the character of Oban whiskey, and a man with a lobster tattoo who sells us juicy lobster tails. A man with a tattoo of a lobster on his arm knows his seafood so we don’t hesitate to dine on his offerings. We eat outside and the food is warm and tasty. 

This is our last night in Scotland. Sunshine, mountains, snow, lochs, valleys, mussels, hospitality, whisky…I could list the things I like about this country for a long time.  

Part 2:  Hay-on-Wye 

My holiday continues with a flight back to London (the return train fare was extortion) and a drive to the Welsh border. The second half of my great British holiday is a night in a tent whilst I enjoy the Guardian Hay Festival. 

A boot full of things we don't need

I have never been camping before and the campsite supplied the tent. I’m accompanied by a fellow camp-virgin. The boot of my car is filled with a lot of rubbish we could not possibly need. My friend has brought, amongst other things, an all-in-one penknife cutlery set, a lantern, foil blankets, an inflatable pillow, tarpaulin and a lot of junk food. 

When we arrive we already view the English countryside with contempt. There are no road signs or landmarks, the roads are barely the width of the car and it is impossible to navigate. Bemoaning our disorientation, we decide never to entertain any complaint about car travel in developing countries from our well-travelled friends. I find the infinite mystery of the roads here appalling. 

When we arrive we park the car and make our way to ‘check-in’. We’re told about the facilities (shower, toilets, drinking water) and escorted to our tent. I ask the man what the field is used for when tents aren’t erected. “Sheep” was his reply. He wasn’t lying; sheep poo, yet again, was everywhere and we were going to be sleeping amongst it. I had to acquire yet more indifference to another circumstance that involved animal faeces.  I had only just got used to walking in the matter. 

The tent came with an inflatable double bed but it needed more air. The helpful concierge dragged it out across the field to take it to the pump. I was very unhappy our mattress was being dragged through a field full of sheep shit and this was one of many things what would prevent me from getting any sleep at all. 

Night time

“I can’t find my hair net” 

I decide to finish my evening at the Guardian Hay festival with a pint of beer in the hope that a warm fuzzy feeling will help me sleep. We walk back to the campsite and I make a point of using the toilets at the festival because the campsite facilities were horrific. My friend and I get into the tent (which is obscenely tiny for two unromantically involved people) and attempt to get changed. There is a lot of rummaging before we remember to turn the lantern off and protect our modesty. “I can’t find my hair net!” my friend says. Tying my hair back is the last thing on my mind. It’s getting colder. 

I put on thermals because I am already chilly. The air is icy. I can’t understand why people enjoy sleeping outside. I hope to understand by the morning. 

My trip to the facilities in the festival was fruitless; after 30 minutes of tossing and turning I desperately need to use the loo again. I am filled with dread. I was witness to their nasty condition earlier in the day and didn’t have any sanitary gel hand wash. I am not super-human and have to eventually heed nature’s call. I go to the toilets, about 30 meters away, in my thermals and Wellington boots. I find one that is barely acceptable but there is no toilet paper. I run into the men’s (having decided that anything goes on a campsite) and liberate some from there. 

I exit the cubicle, drench my hands in soap and turn on the tap. Nothing happens. So I have to wash my hands in the basin outside where people normally brush their teeth. There were, of course, no hand towels. 

It is pitch black and when I get back to the tent I can’t deal with the zips. The porch zip catches on an outside flap and gets jammed. I can’t get it unstuck. I eventually give up and return to my sleeping bag with the tent not fully closed. I am convinced a grass snake will crawl in and kill me. I am sorry to say I am not fabricating this fear.

When I bought the sleeping bag it was sold as a ‘two season’ bag. I was told this meant it was adequate for spring and summer. It was a summer’s night. So why was it so painfully cold? I understand chilly climates. I spend a week every winter charging down snow capped mountains. I am British. But I have never known cold like this. 

I can’t lie still because I become obsessed with preventing any contact with the mattress dragged along the sheep poo earlier. I can hear somebody snoring in the tent next door. In another tent I can hear constant whispering. It’s so loud, I think it’s my friend talking in her sleep. People are inconsiderate on campsites, I decide. When I did manage to sleep, I think I was awoken by the sound of wolves. 

As if someone flicked a light switch, it was day. The sun shone brightly through the tent. I couldn’t believe it, after the punishing low temperatures of the night, I was roasting in the tent. Uncomfortable is not the word. It felt unbearable. It’s an oppressive heat, it’s Floridian heat – it’s ridiculous. Luckily, lack of sleep made consciousness quite difficult and eventually my eyes closed. My ordeal ended with at least an hour of shut-eye. 

Upon waking for the morning, the shower was an even more interesting experience. Queuing up with strangers in their pyjamas or towels, or like me in my thermal and Wellington boot combination was a formality I could have done without. The shower was a trickle and the cubicle covered in mud and grass. Were people wrestling in the field last night? The outside was all over the inside. I have nothing positive to say about this experience. 

I leave the campsite having showered, dressed and brushed my teeth in the car park. I am so grateful I only booked the single night.

On reflection 

On holidays like this you do not escape from the city, you denounce it. I found myself shedding my skin and adopting a new sensibility in Scotland. Marching up and down hills and mountains for week is a commanding experience that exfoliates city drudgery from your brain. Complaining about sheep poo was ridiculous when I think about the dirty, cramped and unfriendly conditions that go unnoticed the city. I no longer mind stepping in sheep poo. I will undertake more trips like this for certain. Nevertheless, I will never, ever go camping again.

I have not supported England since Euro ‘96. It was not a conscious decision on my part to abandon the national side. It was a deliberate decision for the national side to abandon me. To buy £200,000 watches, accumulate mostly awful women for wives and to put nasty body kits on beautiful cars they are privileged to own. I don’t care much for their tattoos either. I became disinterested. 

Asamoah Gyan celebrates the penalty that went in

It’s not just the personalities, English football has failed to thrill me over the past 15 years. The scandals of days gone by were typically English and typically fun.  They were fuelled mostly by team bonding and bad judgement, not viciousness or disregard. The Terry saga left a bitter taste in the mouth of many; the Gerrard story if it ever breaks is likely to do the same.  

So now, like many of us in the Diaspora, I tend to root for athletes of shared heritage or experience. The English can’t compete with their humility, passion and pride. I don’t mean this in a tokenistic, noble savage way. It’s an appreciation of worth, rather than entitlement. I urge you to watch this interview with Ghanaian international Dominic Adiyiah  – no moaning, no anger, no excuses. He gives only apologies, acceptance and understanding. 

I can understand Adiyiah, because I can know something of where he came from. In what seems like a lifetime ago (when Ghana played Australia) I attended a screening of Football Fables, a documentary about the Ghanaian youth football system, directed by Baff Akoto. Akoto, when asked, explained why he made the film: 

“I love football and I love Ghana.” 

This seems reason enough. 

Football Fables explores the journey of a young footballer with the 2008 African Cup of Nations, held in Ghana that year, as a backdrop to his story. We learn about Francis, his learned manager, and the limited opportunities available to him in his native country. 

The opening scene is filmed in the intimate setting of a crowded changing room. Young footballers clap, chant and sing together. This is not the Emirates Stadium. This is the Ghana U-20 international team, who avoided the ignominy of being knocked out of a knock-out competition and won the U-20 World Cup. (Most of the players graduated to play in South Africa this year). 

Akoto’s subject is an energetic talent desperate to make his living playing football. Francis has already had a trial with Reading and his manager meets with a German representative whose clubs want to see him train. It’s not simple; the clubs often do not pay travel or offer much in the way of compensation. The manager not only manages his starlet, he accommodates and employs him as well. The manager needs compensation too. He’s been in the game a long time and has no patience to suffer fools. The German, with nothing to offer but opportunity, is sent packing. 

In this lies the story Football Fables wants to tell; the journey that must be made and the people that must be encountered before a young Ghanaian prodigy can be successful. Whether it’s seedy, corrupt, unfair or unsurprising, the audience is left to judge. Akoto is happy to film the vibrancy and honesty that can be found in Ghana, whether in the street football played by youngsters to make money or the household in which Francis lives, complete with a younger brother that wishes to follow him everywhere, much to his annoyance. Francis washes cars and stacks shelves; all the while with consideration, thoroughness and, perhaps strangely to his peers in this country, great thanks. 

The youth football industry has little regulation, so boys have to take their chances where they find them. There is the charity youth set-up that scouts, recruits, trains and teaches young boys to a standard that makes them saleable. Some can be helped by a manager in the way that Francis is. The third chance they have is to be scouted by a hungry premier league talent hunter, and whisked away to glory. But each path handles the player in its own different ways. 

Via Ibrahim Sunday, an icon of the past, to Sulley Muntari, an icon of the present, we view the optimism, hard work and sacrifice that Francis must bear to move on. He lives far away from home (a common occurrence in young Ghanaian adulthood) and meets his obligation to send money to his family – more at Christmas. This is done in spite of the fact he can’t earn enough to make an independent living playing in the Premier League equivalent of his home. And in the meantime the one unquestionable thing is his faith in his manager to find him a club. He has found himself on this path; he cannot choose another one now. 

If anyone is confused or fascinated by the Ghanaian celebrations, the dignified silence after the undignified handball or belatedly frustrated with the excesses of the Premier League, watch this documentary when you can. You’ll see the country, you’ll see the desire but most of all, you’ll see young men. Not spoilt brats. 

Football Fables screening information can be found here: 

www.footballfables.co.uk

Chained Library, Hereford Cathedral. Reproduced by kind permission of the Dean and Chapter of Hereford and the Mappa Mundi Trustees

‘In the Middle Ages books were rare, and so was honesty. A book, it was said, was worth as much as a farm; unlike a farm, it was portable property that could easily be purloined. Books, therefore, were kept under lock and key.’

Canon B H Streeter, The Chained Library, 1931

Walk through Hereford’s imposing cathedral, its shop and cafeteria, then past the Mappa Mundi – a treasure beyond price that lay for years in a dusty crypt – and you reach the Chained Library. The most complete surviving example of its kind, the volumes are arranged with painstaking neatness on the six double and two single bookcases, just as they were in 1590, and for the 250 years that they remained in the Lady Chapel at the eastern end of the cathedral.

The charm of a bookshelf bristling with dangling chains is immediate. The volumes, so firmly manacled in place give rise to the irresistible idea that left to their own devices they might fly from the shelves and spread their contents far and wide.

But the key, of course, was security. The books are shelved with their spines at the back, and the foredge of each front cover has a brass staple. From this a metal chain is attached; at the other end, a ring runs freely along a bar under the bottom shelf. The books can in this way be opened and studied, but not removed by a reader at the sloping wooden desks, overwhelmed for a greedy moment by the beauty and value of the volume.

The idea of a library – a specific room for the storage and study of books – came about in the late medieval period. Before this they were housed wherever they were used. Hereford Cathedral’s library was described as ‘new’ in 1478. Through the Reformation, the invention of moveable type, and the English Civil War, the library grew and prospered as books were bought and given as gifts. In the 19^th century, the Lady Chapel was restored as a place of worship, and the anachronistic chained volumes were consigned to storage, along with their dismantled shelves.

But in 1855 the library was partly – and incorrectly – reassembled by a librarian called F T Havergal. From 1929 to 1931 the correct assembly was rediscovered by Canon B H Streeter, whose arrangement remained in place until 1996, when the new library building in which the books are displayed today, allowed the Chained Library to be restored completely to its former glory.

Travelling by train from London to Hereford in 2010, the passenger who leaves a mobile phone or iPod on the seat while he relieves himself is asking for the item to be purloined. Leave a book on the seat, and the chances that it will still be there after a trip to the buffet car are high.

Go into any mobile phone shop, and alarming echoes of the chained library are very much in evidence. Ever had the urge to toy with a desirable communication device? Naturally you may; but it will be firmly chained to the bowels of the shop.

Ought we, then, to fear that placing value on books is a thing of the past? The newspapers – themselves struggling for life in a world of instant online news – are full of cautionary mutterings about ‘apps’ and ‘e-readers’, sanitising literature and removing forever the delightful possibility of finding an old love letter, pressed flower or rasher of bacon between the pages of a dusty volume.

Books, however, have some distinct advantages over these wonders of the modern world. They don’t, as Nadine Gordimer pointed out at this year’s Hay on Wye festival, require batteries. Fling a book out of a fifth floor window and retrieve it from a puddle the next morning and it will be unpleasant, but decidedly readable. Not so the ‘e-reader’. And vitally, they instil in people a passion that makes them hang onto them. Over the years I have absent-mindedly abandoned scarves, hats and jewellery, each item probably worth more than even a brand new paperback. I have given books away, but I have never, as far as I can recall, lost one.

 Hereford’s Chained Library is a charming, historical curiosity. But it is also a living part of the cathedral’s history, and the passion that has been ploughed into ensuring its survival over the centuries is heartening, and very real.

For more information visit www.herefordcathedral.org. Further reading: Joan Williams, Mappa Mundi and the Chained Library, (Norfolk: Jarrold Publishing)

At Queen's, the first tournament of the grass court season, the American Andy Roddick is proving as elusive as a British Grand Slam champion. The four-time title winner has just been dumped out in the fourth round by a player ranked some sixty places below him but the six foot two, world number seven remains somewhere in the grounds, if not in the tournament. The Aegon Championship, held in the well-to-do West London surroundings of Kensington and Baron's Court, typifies everything that's good and bad about the game - access and accessibility.

It's 10.30am on a grey Wednesday morning. A modest queue of tennis fans snake around the block patiently waiting to gain entry into the pre-Wimbledon warm up. They're braving the elements with characteristic good cheer. It's cold and damp but the prospect of being able to see some of the tennis world's biggest stars is more than enough to allay any weather-related fears. A tantalising bill awaits those with staying power: Murray, Nadal, Djokovic and... Roddick. Ah, Roddick, the sometime object of my tennis affections.  It’s been a long time since a tennis player held any sway over me. Over the years, as me and my generation have got older and our players have retired to take their place in the history books, I’ve learnt to be more of a fan of the game than those who play it. But Roddick has proven to be a rare exception. With his classic good looks and erratic on-court performances there's something about Andy that's captured my imagination. But since winning the US Open in 2003 Roddick has failed to capture another Grand Slam title, despite making the Wimbledon finals on three occasions, and another US Open final, and at each time falling to the superior skills of his nemesis, Roger Federer.

For me, before Andy there was Agassi. It was he who first turned me on to the game, just before his Wimbledon final against Goran Ivanisevic in 1992, where he earned his place not only in my affections but in those of tennis aficionados the world over. The flashy American from Las Vegas was the ultimate tennis pin-up, a rebel without a cause who dated Hollywood stars and crashed and burned only to rise again in spectacular fashion. A former world number one, Agassi slumped to number 143 and had to slug it out on the challenger circuit before reclaiming his place at the top of the game. I idolised him. He didn't just look good, he played good too.

Back to today and it's not long before I get the chance to have my curiosity satiated. A car pulls up at the gate that's the player's entrance. I peer in through the slightly tinted windows and see the outline of a man in the passenger seat who looks familiar.  I tell my companions it's Andy Roddick. We stand fixed to the spot in a state of bemused disbelief as the driver parks up and a larger than life, hulk of a man emerges from the Range. A small gathering crowd around him, excitedly pushing pieces of paper in his face, which he graciously signs before making his exit. I try to get myself together and manoeuvre myself in his direction but within seconds he gone.

A young Asian girl in a headscarf displays a disturbing knowledge of the players and their movements. She's been here everyday in pursuit of her idols and is on friendly terms with their various entourages. She's carrying all kinds of tennis paraphernalia- rackets, balls, polo shirts and programmes- desperate to get any kind of physical mark of approval from the players. She and her friends have developed a system of divide and conquer whereby the split their time between the main entrance and the practice courts on constant player watch and text each other whenever anyone of significance makes a move. She's eager to chat. She tells us that we're in the optimum position to get player's autographs and that over the past few days of the tournament she's met them all individually. You'd think this was all talk if it wasn't for the fact that she's on first name terms with some of the grounds staff. She’s regimented in her dedication to the sport. She reminds me of a younger me.

It soon becomes clear that she's a fan of Andy Murray. She knows everything about him and isn't afraid to show it. She reels of his car make, model and number plate; his arrival times and practice times; his eating habits and dietary requirements with frightening ease. I quickly realise that my dedication to tennis was never comparable to hers. She knows what she wants and is determined to get it. She wants Murray and it seems nothing will stand in her way.

Right now, all eyes are on the Scot. He's the defending champion at Aegon and the country's sole hope of any progress at Wimbledon this year. It emerges after Aegon that Murray will be the only British representative in the men's draw at SW19 for the first time in the tournament's 133 year history, and to make matters worse he's not even English! Times are certainly hard. Pat Cash, the Australian former Wimbledon champion is quoted as saying that the LTA is the laughing stock of tennis associations around the world. But if they're laughing at British tennis, British tennis is not laughing at itself.

Complaints that football is no longer a working class game can also be levelled against tennis except that tennis has never been the people's game in the same sense. The LTA, which is responsible for governing tennis in the UK, has come under fire in recent years for failing to develop young talent from across all spectrums of society, meaning that those most financially able to play the game may not necessarily be the most gifted. With Henman and Rusedski long since retired, British tennis hopes have fallen squarely on the shoulders of Murray, a burden which brings to mind another Andy.

Roddick and Murray have much in common, apart from the same first name. Roddick, is the top-ranked American player and the only American inside the ATP top 10. While this may not be lamentable compared to the situation in which British tennis finds itself in, you need only go back a decade or two, to America's tennis heyday when the country dominated the sport across most surfaces with Agassi, Sampras, Chang, Courier, Martin and others on the periphery all flying the stars and stripes for the US to see that American tennis is not in its best shape.

The rivalry between Agassi and his adversary Sampras lit up tennis for over a decade, with Sampras' record number of tittles being one-upped by Agassi when he became only the fifth man in the Open Era to complete a career Grand Slam by winning the French Open in 1999. A clash of the titans, in terms of both style and personality, Sampras and Agassi entertained both on and off the court. Not so with today's game. Tennis is a titanic game, a gladiatorial sport in which the mental is as important as the physical. Roddick himself acknowledged that in order for there to be a real rivalry between him and Federer he needed to win a few matches against Federer first. Thankfully, Rafael Nadal has stepped up to the plate and, hopefully, it won’t be long before Murray does too, not only at the US Open, where he was once a finalist, but at Wimbledon also. And if there’s one thing that Andy junior can learn from Andy senior, it’s how to win at home.

Thames Magistrate's Court, east London. We all, including the eight, sullen-looking defendants, rise. These were the -----------, lads in hoods on bikes who robbed and threatened anyone in their way. They're all aged between 15 and 18. The police and the local council are applying for ASBOs for the gang, two of the conditions banning them from a number of areas in the borough where they live, and from associating all together.

Lawyers stand in turn and speak, procedural matters. The supporting evidence, decision and comments of the magistrate were what I wanted. It wouldn't hurt if the applicants' lawyer made some choice remarks likening this lot to 'a gang of thugs' or used phrases like 'terrorise the neighbourhood.' The magistrate was a short, stout, sour-faced woman under a bob of greying hair. I remember her from my very first visit to Thames Magistrates Court two years ago when she sentenced a young mother to 14 days in jail for repeatedly thumping a nightclub bouncer. The defendants' lawyers are now asking for some time to check a point of law with a colleague. The magistrate mutters something to the clerk.

-Court rise.

Outside, the court building on Bow Road is a large, brown structure that appears older than however old it is. Inside on the ground floor is a desk to check your bags, metal-detecting arches, threadbare carpet tiles leading up grubby stairs to a lobby. The size of a provincial airport departure lounge. Court lists pinned up on noticeboards. WILTON, Garry David Vs LONDON BOROUGH OF TOWER HAMLETS. HALLIARD, Jacquie Vs LONDON BOROUGH OF HACKNEY. The printed sheets gave dates of birth, addresses, alleged offences and dates on which they're claimed to have been committed. Lots of women up on benefit fraud charges, I'd noticed.

Outside the court my case was in I'd sat in one of the rows of hard plastic chairs, first to arrive. I'd wait for the applicant's lawyer, in this case a man named Clive, introduce myself, ask how serious the case was even though I already knew the answer, then wait for the lawyer to talk it up. Then I'd suggest the story I'd write would be about justice for a gang of thugs who terrorise the neighbourhood, and the lawyer would nod and agree, offering a spare printed copy of the evidence, and say he would be sure to describe the defendants and their actions to the magistrate in suitable terms. The reason being that by law you can only report with impunity what is said in court, or - and, worryingly, I've never been clear on this - documents used as evidence in court. But the evidence won't be written in tabloid headlines. You need the lawyers or the magistrate for that. 'WILD WEST' GUNMAN CAGED, or 'PACK OF DOGS' GANG WALKS FREE. Otherwise you'd get sued for defamation.

No wood panelling in the courtroom: a high ceiling, walls painted off-white, well-lit, some needlessly exposed rafters, last refurb probably during the 1990s. A glass screen separating the public gallery at the back from the courtroom. I look at the few notes I have in an upholstered seating area at the side, there's no press gallery. The magistrate's empty chair looms high above the defendants and lawyers, behind raised battlements of modern court design. The defendants stare into the distance, silent, or look around the court without interest.

A court usher bustles in, spots me sitting at the side. She sees the notepad and says that Clive had told her he'd been expecting media interest. Clive had been expecting this because he'd phoned my office last week inviting us to come along: a notorious local gang getting ASBOs. The usher smiles and sails on, clutching a sheaf of papers to her chest.

-Court rise.

The magistrate strides back to her chair, keen to get on with things. The defendants' lawyers, one representing seven of them, a second representing the other one, ask for the matter to be deferred due to other outstanding cases against five members of the gang which have yet to be resolved.

Clive, a white-haired, balding man in his late fifties who looks much too nice to be involved with criminal law, stands and states that he would urge against this due to the fact that the said matters have remained outstanding for some time already, while there is a real need amidst the communities the applicants are acting on behalf of that this matter be resolved soon. It's a weak argument, like when defendants' lawyers go through the motions hopelessly applying for bail by saying that they have had meaningful discussions with their client who they do not consider to be a risk to the public. The magistrate has a quick word with the clerk, sighs very audibly, and defers the proceedings until when the outstanding matters have been resolved.

-Court rise.

An entirely typical hour in a magistrate's court. There had been little else of interest on the court lists outside, the kind of routine mid-way assault trials and benefit fraud cases that news agencies send in to the paper anyway, and wouldn't warrant me spending another couple of hours away from the office, even on a Friday when we had more time to spend before the deadline rush early next week. Clive smiles as we leave, says he is disappointed and will keep me in the loop for when it comes back to court. The usher brushes past us outside, a flash of blonde.

Then it started. The hopefuls, Andy Burnham, David Milliband, Diane Abbott, Ed Balls and Ed Milliband, strolled onto the stage and the chair, Gaby Hinsliff from The Observer told a bad joke (“Welcome to Labour’s Got Talent!”). Andy Burnham got proceedings under way with his opening statement then, one by one all the others followed with fighting talk in an attempt to convince, nay, beg the audience to let them become the next leader of the Labour Party. 

Except, that is not what happened. What happened was extraordinary. The Leadership Hustings was a display of humility and honesty, of gracious agreement and informed argument. It was politics, but not as I know it. 

The evening, if anything, clarified one thing for me. Diane Abbott is not a candidate for the Labour Party leadership because she is black and a woman. She was the only person on stage who had risen through the ranks – an honour not unnoticed by her competitors. She is passionate, experienced, truly dripping with Labour values and, what’s more, has the voting record to back it up. 

She had the lines to get the crowd cheering: “When Cameron says cuts will change our way of life, he doesn’t mean his way of life – he means your way of life.” Statements like these got everyone, including the other candidates, thinking.  When she described herself as a ‘turn the page candidate’ she was completely right. Not because of what she is (black, female) but because of something she never was (New Labour). 

This is not to say she doesn’t have a fight on her hands.  Ed Milliband, unafraid to tackle the champagne socialism he graduated from, promised to embrace Labour values and nurture a state that picks up all who capitalism leaves behind. Brother Dave, without hesitation, accepted the flaws of his government in failing to listen to policy think tanks when writing their manifesto which, as it happens, Milliband junior wrote. In fact, the topic that generated the most discussion of the evening was a response to the wily question: “Which three New Labour polices of the last 13 years do you most regret?” All five would have gone on all night, listing the ways in which the Labour government failed their supporters. 

At first, I lamented their congeniality. The affable pats on the back, the nodding and smiling whilst one another spoke. Then I realised I was just conditioned by the general election, where there are so many watching, there is so much to lose and politicians become drones. 

What the candidates have now is room to manoeuvre and perspective. No press officers barking instructions down their Blackberries or news reporters filming their front doors. In the absence of these pressures honesty and frankness flourished; I recall only one New Labour fault being blamed on Gordon Brown, the 10p tax rate, which everyone disagreed with. For everything else collective responsibility was chosen. Collective responsibility; certainly the buzz word of the night. And, if this was not a hoax, it will remain a buzzword when Labour decides too.

The Labour Leadership Hustings, organised by the Fabian Society, LabourList, Left Foot Forward and Compass, was a truly eye-opening event. For all those who think that Labour will disappear into the oblivion of opposition and descend into the mire that the Conservatives occupied post 1997 then yesterday’s proceedings gave them something new to ponder. Consider this: the next Labour leader will be the next prime minister. What’s more, the next Labour leader will have the almost complete backing of his or her party, from the grassroots up, a novelty in today’s politics and for the Labour party itself given its recent history.

Make no mistake. The party is in need of its current catharsis. Labour is in the process of healing the scars of the last 13 years, which it needs to do in order to come back revitalised and rejuvenated. And it's clear from the hustings that the best thing that could have happened to Labour was to suffer electoral defeat and take an enforced time out to regroup and reposition itself as, dare I say, the people’s party or, at least, the party of the people.

Thank goodness there was no LibLab coalition. The LibDems would've been a noose around Labour's neck, depriving the party of the new energy and introspection it so badly needs. These are exciting times for Labour. There’s a good feeling about the party and the prospect of change.

Labour is in its strongest position for years, blessed with an abundance of ideas, ideals and able potential leaders, in contrast to the Conservatives and the LibDems who, without Cameron and Clegg, would struggle to muster even a couple of credible candidates. Each Labour leadership contender has the credentials to justify their place on the podium and on the evidence of the hustings every candidate should have a place on the shadow front bench. And what a formidable government-in-waiting they would be – Milliband and Milliband, Balls and Burnham and Diane Abbott - offering a solid counterbalance and presenting a united front. Opposition has rarely looked so good.

Abbott, in particular, has increasingly shown herself to be the Grand Dame, and not the Pantomime Dame, of the party, a Beckett or a Harman for the grassroots and a legend of the Left. Ed Balls, like his one-time boss Gordon Brown, is not a natural orator but what he lacks in presentation he makes up for in passion. Ed Milliband's vision for an inclusive party includes wooing Green voters and pledging to make his shadow cabinet 50% women, something I disagree with but that's another article. Oddly, the economy featured little in the debate although the issue of inequality came up towards the end. Andy Burnham, with his distinctly Northern down-to-earth charm, spoke of better care for the elderly and much was made of 'values' and being the 'voice for the voiceless.' David Milliband’s aim of creating a social movement resonated with the other candidates and went down well with supporters, many of whom have felt excluded from the conversation under previous leaderships.

It's good that Old New Labour is out of the picture, leaving the aspirants to get on with it and distinguish themselves without the burden of the past. The public backing of grandees like Neil Kinnock and Tony Benn won't help, and may even damage, a candidate’s campaign. The spectre of Blair-Brown is nowhere to be seen. A new agenda for a new century of leadership is what’s required.

So on the evidence of last night’s debate, it seems the ideal candidate would be a mixture of youthful idealism i.e. Ed Milliband and rugged experience i.e. Diane Abbott, which may be Ed Balls or even Andy Burnham but if you want a ready-made PM then David Milliband is your man, which is all as clear as mud but leaves us spoilt for choice if not for obvious differences. So do you vote with your head or your heart? That, indeed, remains the question. But one thing’s certain – whatever the outcome, there will be no losers in this race and the party will be the ultimate winner.